Aerosmith: Reloaded
by DrDisturbin
Summary: The young Narancia Ghirga has just joined Passione, the most ruthless, infamous gang in Naples. His comrades are cold, and his resolve is weak- but when a threat far greater than anything Bruno Bucciarati can expect arrives on their doorstep, the young Narancia is tried, to strengthen his resolve, and learn to use his stand: Aerosmith.


There was a mist so light and cool, one could swear the cell block was haunted by a light rain. However, no rain could permeate the stony walls and rocky halls in which he resided. Not that he would care, his own space within was lit brightly, and possessed all a man of his nature would ever need. He had no need for violence, though he could use it at a whim. Of course, all his weaponry was hidden from the guards, though he now exposed it, showing off his arsenal. Knives, guns, and explosives littered Polpo's locker, who himself littered his rather small cell in comparison to his gargantuan size. Crimson eyes could peer into one's thoughts, and the boy who stood on the other side of the glass could feel Polpo's gaze stab through him. The giant let out a low laugh.  
"I trust you have my lighter?" he asked, his words delicate. The boy held the lighter, fully lit, and extended his arm to show it. "It wasn't easy." he replied. Polpo let out a hearty laugh, and beckoned for the boy to place it into the return slot. The boy nodded, and of course deposited the lighter, making sure the flames would not go out. He bit his lip and slid it under, not allowing even the metal hatch to graze the low fire.  
"You have done by my expectations." Polpo mused. He retrieved a glass from atop his fridge, pouring a fine red wine into it. He swirled the liquid, letting out a light chuckle. He stirred his wine in it's glass, as if threatening to spill it onto the fires which the boy had done so well to protect. As the boy slunk away from the hatch, Polpo retrieved it, and blew the lighter out. Black smoke rose from it, and the boy felt a massive weight lift off his shoulders, and sink into his stomach. Polpo, however, did not seem in the least bit nervous, or threatened. In fact, he was rather jovial. From a small drawer in the wall he sat next to, he retrieved a small pin. It was gold, not just in color or polish, but in all sense of the word. If he had not been obligated to give it to the boy, Polpo would take it for himself.  
"Welcome to Passione, Ghirga." he said, sliding the pin beyond the slot. The boy picked it up, and pinned it to his jacket. He nodded.  
"Thank you, Capo Polpo." he returned. Polpo offered him a raised eyebrow and a grin, before breaking into a low laugh. "I amuse myself, sometimes… you are to see Bucciarati. He will welcome you further." he said. He turned to face his fridge, no longer paying attention to the boy. Ghirga took note of his relaxed demeanor, and paced the hall once more, to leave his Capo behind.

"... The Gryphon?" Fugo asked, puzzled. His eyebrows raised and lowered, as if he had a burning suspicion what he was just told might not be entirely true.  
"Yes. Simone The Gryphon. That is what he was called. And of course, I use was, as that was his title he used while working for the boss." Bucciarati responded. He sipped his tea, and noticed the full plate in front of Fugo.  
"You've yet to touch your spaghetti, Fugo." he pointed out. Fugo gulped and nodded. He toyed the pasta with his fork, his eyes darting around the table too quickly to be fixated on one simple food. Across from him sat Mista, who was unusually silent for conversation being had. He as well did not seem very interested in his food, poking the mozzarella of his caprese salad with a fork, not daring to pick any of it up. His own teacup had barely been sipped. When the two's eyes met, they communicated silently. They both knew something was up. Neither seemed to know what, but something would happen soon, very soon, in fact. Abbachio paid no mind to Fugo or Mista, enjoying his own meal with the gratitude of a grandmother and the politeness of a queen. His own tea had been drank some time ago, and his plate of carpaccio had been nearly picked clean. He now bothered himself with a magazine, preferring the company of models on pages to that of the worried souls on either side of him. He considered superstition to be a waste of time and energy. He would never truly understand Mista, he felt.  
The soft ringing of the bell above the front door penetrated the quiet air. The gentle brass bell let out a small ringing noise, accompanied by the door being shut rather silently in comparison. Small-footed footsteps led from it, and suddenly, standing in the threshold to the gang's private room and table, stood the boy. At first, nobody looked up. Fugo was the first, his eyes following the boys feet and stopping at his face. He recognized the sad eyes and messy hair of the boy from six months earlier. Mista also sharpened to attention. Though he did not know who this boy was, his reaction paralleled Fugo's, as the two sat in an awkward, yet tangible silence. Still, Abbachio paid no mind to the newcomer.  
It was Bucciarati who spoke up first. He stared into the boy, in a kinder way than Polpo, but just as powerfully. When he opened his mouth to speak, he did not, instead enjoying another bite of his primavera. He chewed and swallowed, beckoning the boy over without talking. So the boy sat next to him, in the now drawn chair.  
"I worried it might be you." Bucciarati said, not looking at the boy at all. His attention, or at least his eyesight, seemed to be on his meal. Bucciarati was a near impeccable man, his face carrying plenty of kindness and power. His hair was cut just at his chin, and shaped almost perfectly round, held in place by twin hairclips. His attire was a plain white, with black, dragging spots patterning the entirety of the two pieces, which itself was adorned with zippers along the neck, arms, shoulders, chest, and back. His front opened, revealing the mesh top he wore, which shaped into hearts and flowers across his chest. This man, with his deep blue eyes, did not look the boy dead on.  
The boy had no words to say. His own hair was shorter, but messier, held in place by an orange band in three places. Still, it was untamed. He wore a dirty white polo shirt and a torn, tan jacket, which was too small for him, stopping just past his elbows. His pants were shredded, and black, and his shoes were more so slippers. He had no presence in dress, and his sad eyes and rounded chin made him look much younger than he actually was, a boy age 16 and a half. He opened his own mouth, to try to say something, anything, but words failed him.  
"What is your name?", the question came from Abbachio. He had let his eyes wander from the magazine just long enough to ask the question. Abbachio was a man of 20 years, with longer, silver hair. His attire was much more plain than Bucciarati, but just as elegant. He wore a long, black robe, which parted at his waist, secured in place by a belt buckle with the letter "A" adorned onto it. His eyes had no select color, rather one could imagine them a shade of purple or a shade of yellow, and both answers would be correct. They were stern and disciplined, hardened by what one could only assume was countless hours of work with no rest.  
The boy sat, trying to answer the question. His hands trembled, and he tried to hold them still against his lap. The table looked to him, aside from Bucciarati.  
"My… my name is… Narancia Ghirga." he forced. Bucciarati paused his meal. He looked to the boy, inquisitively. Bucciarati's eyes had a different feel to Abbachio. His eyes did not tell stories, they read them. Two arbiters of the mind, Bucciarati's eyes absorbed all they needed to about Narancia before looking away. His lack of a smile had not changed, nor did it seem intent on doing so any time soon. Instead, he resumed his conversation with Fugo.  
"I suppose it will be up to us to track him down." he said, stabbing at his plate with his fork. Narancia caught what looked to almost be a hint of anger creep across Bucciarati's face, and he kept to himself. Fugo blinked, unnerved by his boss's sudden change in tone. Fugo was a boy of 15, almost 16. He wore his strawberry blonde hair somewhat lower on his face, letting them develop into thick locks and bangs, pointing upwards in the back. His eyes were of a lighter blue, and softer than Bucciarati's, though the rest of his face was not. His outfit was a pale green suit, and a red tie, with a strawberry design. Below his suit jacket was a white polo, similar to Narancia's in design, but superior in quality. His jacket had many holes and indentations, as if they had each been carefully carved out at a later date, rather than being originally crafted with the holes.  
"Yes… I suppose it will have to be." he said, agreeing with Bucciarati. Mista shook his head and continued to stare at Narancia. Mista seemed to be of a different breed than the others. His face was not very intimidating, and his jaw was somewhat square. Narancia could see little hair past a royal blue hat, with a red rim that stretched across the front and back of this oddball. He wore a jacket, royal blue with red trimming, which featured a thin white mesh pattern. Underneath his jacket he wore a loose-fitting t-shirt, which was a pale yellow and featured only the word "Now".  
"So, Narancia, right? I'm Mista, Guido Mista," he said, mostly to the others than Narancia. He eyed Fugo and Bucciarati, as if telling them they were obligated to talk to the newcomer with his glare. Neither party dared follow Mista's directions. Fugo's eyes went back to his meal.  
"I believe Polpo will send you after him, Fugo." Bucciarati said. His eyes averted from Narancia, as though he were not there at all. Narancia felt small, and scoot back in his chair until he was no higher than a mouse.  
"Me? I can't… even with my stand, I can't face The Gryphon…" Fugo replied. A disappointed frown flopped across his face, and he took his first bite of his meal. Abbachio sipped and set the magazine onto the table with a gentle thud. He tapped his spoon against his plate, drawing attention. All members of the party looked to him after the third tap. While Bucciarati looked with a quaint curiosity, Mista, Fugo, and Narancia all looked with a relative unease. Abbachio was somewhat of a loose cannon, and this was obvious just by being in his presence. He did not smile, but kept a straight face. The corners of his mouth naturally sloping downwards to give the impression of a permanent frown.  
"... Polpo will not send for Fugo. He will send for Ghirga." he stated. He did not falter, and took a sip of his tea. Fugo and Mista both looked at him with something of a disbelief. Bucciarati tilted his head in Abbachio's direction.  
"...I believe he will." he responded. Narancia, unaware of whatever they were talking about, piped up at last. "Er, what do you… what do you mean? I don't know any of what's going on, or even who you guys are, I don't know a thing…"  
The table looked to him, some with a sad look about them, some with a pestered look. Bucciarati, however, finally took note of his new brother. He looked across him, up and down, and Narancia could feel his arbiters sweep him for anything that may tell of who he was. In truth, Narancia had little to say with what he wore, or how he dressed. He was a rat in all manners but his body, pitiful, a pest. This is how he had been grown, this is how he was made. However, Bucciarati's arbiters didn't seem to care of what Narancia had worn, or even the state of his hair. He cleared his throat, and laid a hand on Narancia's shoulder. Narancia looked up, at last, and scoot up in his chair. Bucciarati was not smiling, nor was he frowning. He offered the lips of a judge, completely neutral, and unbending in any way.  
"I, am Bruno Bucciarati. I am the leader of Passione's Enforcers Unit, L'unità delle Forze." he admitted, shutting his eyes and letting Narancia see into him no more. Fugo stood from his seat, following suit.  
"Pannacotta Fugo, Bruno's underling." he stated. Before Bruno could protest, Fugo sat down. Abbachio scoffed, and held his magazine up, while introducing himself.  
"Leone Abbachio." is all he stated. Mista stumbled on his words.  
"I already said my name, right? Guido Mista… Bruno's employee." he said, lifting his tea to sip. Narancia looked around the table, darting from face to face, noting that while the gang members before him did not necessarily seem to trust him closely, they all gave faint traces of tolerance, and even empathy. Fugo in particular offered a slight grin to Narancia, who returned it, and scooted up against the table. Bucciarati still offered no sign of emotion. Instead, he pat Narancia's back.  
"We should get you something to eat."

Fugo was not a fan of shopping. The crowds of patrons bustling from one store to the next with bags larger than themselves, filled with clothes and junk they would wear once, and then in a best case scenario, would be returned the next day for some compensation. Specifically, Fugo divided the people who shop into two categories; those who want and waste, and those who need and find. Of the two, Fugo would only ever consider himself one of those who need and find, saving cash and overall ignoring the superfluous fashion trends of Naples. Those who want and waste were rich tourists, wealthy politicians, corrupt gang-members, and idiotic club-goers. Maybe it was because Fugo had never been to a nightclub himself, but he presumed the act to be a waste of time and money for an experience one could have with a few close friends. The biggest downside to him would be to find that the clothes one shopped for all yesterday afternoon would be ruined by some stain or tear that made the piece unfitting to wear again.  
So when Bucciarati gave Fugo 350,000 lire to buy Narancia new clothes, he was the least bit excited.  
Narancia dogged behind Fugo, as the two weaved their way through the crowds of bickering tourists and locals looking to make a dime off of them. Fugo could not stand the smell of some of these people- Americans, English, German- to him they all smelled of sweat and booze. Narancia himself was at a risk of being squashed by two rather girthy, bearded Americans who laughed and seemed not to mind that the boy was squeezing between them, barely able to fit his already small frame in the space between their protruding bellies. He let out a squeak as he was nearly crushed.  
"Fugo!" he called out. Fugo stopped on his heels and turned around, quickly grabbing Narancia's wrist. He grunted and pulled Narancia free from the tourists, winded, and out of breath. He did not like shopping one bit. When Narancia was free, Fugo made sure they weren't going to be knocked over any time soon. He lightly felt Narancia's sides and arms, giving him a pat down. Narancia, of course, was confused.  
"Uh… what are you doing?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. Fugo stood back up, and brushed his hands.  
"Making sure you weren't pickpocketed. I checked you earlier to see if you would notice. You haven't realized it but I've been holding your wallet for you for about an hour now. Still, I don't think they took anything off of you…" he said, before checking his own pockets. He gasped, and his eyes widened.  
"Son of a…" he began, his hands sporadically moving across his pockets. Narancia remained calm, but realized what had happened. He scratched his head. Kind of itchy.  
"Damn it!" Fugo yelled, several passerby looking to see him. Narancia groaned as more people stopped and stared.  
"Fugo, there are people watching… lets go." he said, trying to speed him up. Fugo yelled,  
"Shut up! I just lost 350,000 lire of Bucciarati's money! He'll kill me!" he felt his back pocket! A sudden crazed smile crept across his face. He pulled the leather wallet from his back pocket! He opened it and saw… no money. Narancia's face was also on a picture inside.  
"That one is mine…" Narancia said, quickly swiping it from Fugo's greedy paws. He wasn't sure he liked this guy much at all. Fugo collapsed onto his knees and forearms, running his hands through his hair. He was panting and cursing. Narancia thought it was weird, seeing as how there was another wallet on the ground right next to him. Maybe Fugo didn't see it?  
"Hey Fugo," he started, raising an eyebrow and pointing. "Is that it?" he asked. Fugo quickly looked around, seeing the black leather wallet by his feet. He lunged to grab it, spilling it open and grinning ear to ear at the lire.  
"Magnificent!" he yelled, too happy for the situation, by any means. He nabbed Narancia's wrist once more, dragging him along, more eager than ever to reach their destination.

"Hmm, for 350,000? I assume this is from Bucciarati?" the tailor asked, counting the bills. The shop was quite void of people on the inside, despite the outside being lined with hundreds of consumers. While Narancia stood akwardly, looking around at the mannequins and half-made jackets and shoes, Fugo nodded, offering his best "business smile".  
"Yes, sir. My good friend here, Narancia-" he pointed to the rat-looking boy. "Is from the street. Bucciarati wants him properly clothed… like a gangster." he finished. His business smile was hard to hold. The tailor yawned and produced a tape from under the counter. He stretched it, making sure it was flexible enough. He shouted to the rat-boy across the room. "Young man, I need to take your waist size!"

Exiting the shop, Narancia felt somewhat awkward. He never really wore clothes that fit, but he was sure the tailor's calculations were wrong. They felt too small. That tailor, whom Narancia did not learn the name of, was apparently Bucciarati's personal designer for all his fashion needs. Why he wanted to put an orange and yellow checkered skirt on Narancia, he did not know.  
Weaving through the tourists of Naples on the way back was similar to trying to light wet paper on fire. Every street, every corner, seemed completely futile, and more than once had Narancia felt someone reach into his pocket, only for him to subtly slap their hand away from his wallet. Following Fugo felt a lot more like chasing a boat down a storm drain. "Narancia, how does it feel?" Fugo asked, trying to guide him. Narancia raised an eyebrow.  
"Kind of tight in places I'd rather not be, especially in the-"  
"I'm talking about joining the gang. When I first joined, Bucciarati welcomed me with open arms. But he's cold to you. He warned you not to join, but you did. Now I want to know, how does it feel?"  
Narancia gulped. Joining the gang was… not the easiest process. Even now, he felt there was something strange about him. Ever since that monster pierced him with the arrow…  
"You, er, mentioned some special task earlier, with Mr. Bucciarati." Narancia said, quickly trying to divide Fugo's attention away from the subject. Fugo nodded. He pushed business men aside to make way for them as they began their march uphill.  
"Yes, I did. Simone The Gryphon, as he is known. His real name is Simone Ossobuco. He was a top tier mafioso, working more directly for the boss than anyone we know about. If you wanted to talk to the boss, you talked to him. He was the only man trusted with the identity of the boss's right hand… and now he's turned traitor." he said, ending on a dismal note. Narancia frowned and furrowed his brow.  
"It sounds like the boss is very secretive… what's his name?" he begged. Fugo stopped and turned to face him, disrupting the flow of lunatics and shoppers. He stared Narancia dead on, and Narancia could tell that Fugo did not have the arbiters of Bucciarati… they were scarier. More perverted. Corrupt.  
"... The boss does not tell anyone his name. Not his right hand, not The Gryphon, nobody. Can you tell me, Narancia, what brought you into this gang?" he demanded.  
"Mr. Bucciarati did, although I don't think he's excited about that…" Narancia said, hanging his head.  
"Bucciarati did! That's right! When it comes to Passione, it's the leaders who invite people in!" Fugo said, jamming his finger into Narancia's chest. Narancia instinctively took Fugo's finger off his chest.  
"Okay, I get it!" he growled. Fugo withdrew his finger from Narancia's chest, and opened his mouth to say something. No words came out though. Instead, Fugo's eyes wandered the sidewalk they were on. Something peculiar was happening. Narancia noticed this strange look in Fugo as he glanced around.  
"F...Fugo? What's wrong?" he asked, scratching his own hair. Fugo turned around and looked up and down the sidewalk.  
"There's… nobody here." he said.  
The sidewalk they were on, the one leading up the hill, was vacant. Not a soul in sight. No sounds of tourists or businessmen, or Americans with beards. Narancia looked around too, finding it peculiar. The streets had been full not two minutes ago, and now they were barren. He also looked to the sky. It had been day just a few moments ago, but now the moon held high in a starry sky.  
"It's… night. How…?" he puzzled, his eyes widening. This didn't make sense. They were there for two minutes, or less. How was it night? How did so many people vanish instantly? How? Fugo remained calm, though a sweat came down his forehead.  
"Narancia," he spoke, in a hushed, soft voice. "Tell me you know how to use your stand." he commanded. Narancia tilted his head in one direction.  
"...Stand?" he asked, quizzically.  
"Your stand! You don't know…" Fugo started, but trailed off. He gulped, and gripped Narancia by the shoulders. The two were equally anxious. Nothing made sense! Day turned to night in an instant! People should still be walking around, even at night!  
"...I believe we may be under attack…," Fugo started. "Under attack… by an enemy stand user!"  
At these words Fugo fell to one knee. His distinctively corrupt eyes swept the streets, sidewalks, alleys, buildings, the sky, if he looked the moon dead on it would shatter into a thousand pieces. With a notably angered frown, he pointed to the empty street, and spoke soundly,  
"Narancia! We fight or die now!"  
Narancia was confused, and his sad, brown eyes drooped ever downwards, his lip trembling. He fumbled for his pockets, his hands shaking. He began to break a nervous sweat. Not only was the situation confusing and dangerous, but he had to fight. He took his switchblade from his pocket… and flipped it open. 5 and a half inches of finely polished steel. More than enough to kill a fully grown man, he felt a little less anxious as he traced the tip with his thumb.  
"R-right!" he declared, stooping down next to Fugo.  
"Purple Haze!" Fugo cried out. The streets were empty, and his voice carried an echo, as though the world had gone dead. No sounds came, except for the rustling of leaves on the ground, and a wispy breeze that did little to soothe Narancia, but blocked Fugo's voice somewhat. Still, Narancia had no idea why they were being attacked, and how…  
"Skksss… skksss…. Sksss…" a voice hissed behind him. Narancia turned a ghastly white, and he could feel his heart skip a beat. His stomach fell through him. Drip. Drip. Drip. He looked between his legs, and saw small, mucus like drops fall, and form a small puddle. He dared to look up, and a drop hit him in his right eye. He bent over further, and rubbed it out, and fell over forwards, turning to face what he thought he saw- it was a monster!  
With skin like rough leather, in a checkered purple and white pattern, and standing like a giant above him, stood the monster! It's helmeted skull and yellow eyes were the definition of evil, and its sewn mouth allowed only its barbaric spit to bubble and drip. Still, Fugo kneeled next to it, seemingly unaware, or better yet, unprovoked.  
"Fugo! Run!" Narancia yelled, trying to alert Fugo of the inevitable attack.  
But Fugo did not.  
"Purple Haze! Narancia- this is my stand!" he said, forwardly, commanding. Both the monster and Fugo's eyes glowed with a dark, purple hue that Narancia must have imagined, it was less than real.  
"Stand? What the hell do you mean?! Fugo!" he yelled. Narancia could feel the blood in his body, his paralysis from fear turning moreso into a confusion, and his confusion into anger.  
"Fugo! We have to run away from that thing, why aren't you moving?!" he roared, spit flying from his mouth. Fugo rolled his eyes and waved his hand in front of his face.  
"Narancia, as I have said, this is my stand. Do not worry, I'll try not to hurt you with it." he replied, taking a step forward. As he did so, the monster also took a step forward, it's labored breathing and drool coming out in a steady stream. Narancia scratched his head, puzzled. The monster… did not seem to want to hurt them. Fugo called it his stand? What was a stand? "Just what the hell is that thing, Fugo?" he asked, pointing his finger at the beast in an accusing way. Fugo groaned.  
"My stand… you must not have seen yours yet. I must remember, you've only recently gone through Polpo's test… but the fact that you can see Purple Haze means you are a stand user. Narancia!" he exclaimed, pointing towards the shorter boy.  
"If we are going to beat this attack back, we need to awaken your stand!" Fugo demanded. Narancia felt a lump in his throat, as though his tongue were unable to form the words needed to express his confusion. He felt his lip tremble, and tried to steady himself, his eyebrows arching forward in a painful rage.  
"What the hell do you mean?! Ever since I've joined this gang, it's been monsters and attacks, what's happening?!" he shrieked, his voice becoming shrill. Fugo stepped back, worried, his brows furrowing. Clearly Narancia was beyond any state of fighting. Fugo tried to analyze their surroundings, scanning up and down the streets, through alleys, even into windows. Nothing seemed too unusual…  
"...Narancia," he began, stooping next to the boy.  
"...We have to get back home. If this is a stand attack, like I suspect, then we'll find the user waiting for us. That's when we'll take him out. And if it isn't… at least we'll be home." he said, offering his hand to Narancia. He looked up at Fugo's hand, his eyes watering, his lip trembling despite his best efforts.  
"The user… The, er, 'stand user?'... what is a stand?" he begged, taking Fugo's hand. Fugo pulled him up, and looked to Purple Haze, idling next to his shoulder, breathing painfully.  
"Stands are physical manifestations of… well, us. Our souls, our fighting spirits. The parts of us that make us who we are. My stand is Purple Haze… it awoke directly after Polpo's test. Yours, on the other hand, seems to be a bit delayed in that sense. The only way to drive a stand out that I know of… is through trauma." his grip tightened on Narancia's hand, and his eyes seemed to darken. Narancia's brows arched higher, and he grit his teeth.  
It all seemed to happen in slow motion- Narancia's eyes traced over Purple Haze, as the beast's right fist launched forwards past Fugo. It's fist was 12 centimeters from his face. 10. 8. 2. Narancia let out a pained scream, and winced in preparation for the killing blow, pulling his hands up to cover his face at the last second-  
But the fist never hit him. He opened his eyes, expecting to see the fist land against him. It had stopped in mid-air, less than half a centimeter from the tip of his nose. Fugo sighed, and Purple Haze's fist retracted.  
"I suppose that won't be enough… no, you have to be conscious of a life or death scenario… that will awaken your ability. Whatever it may be." Fugo pulled away from Narancia, and began to march up the street. Narancia felt a cold sweat run down his cheek, as he felt his face to make sure he was actually there. He was, but he wished beyond wishing that he was not.

"Ergh! Mista, don't pick that cherry tomato up, there's only four left!" Number One yelled. Mista's hand stayed, and he looked down frightened. He had been lightly picking at a salad from the restaurant, which he had taken back to their base. His eyes widened, and he slammed the lid of the styrofoam container shut. "Ack! Number Five, Number Six! Get me the duct tape!" he yelled. His stand, which comprised of six small, humanoid creatures sprung to life, with Five and Six floating to atop the refrigerator, and grabbing the duct tape, tossing it to Mista. He ripped into the tape with his teeth, pulling a long, silver strand of tape off the roll. He hurriedly tucked it under and over the container, under and over, under and over, wrapping it several times, eventually snapping the tape off the roll with a relieved sigh.  
"Phew! That could have been bad!" he said, breathing heavily. The base they had set up was actually Bruno's apartment. Though it was relatively small for the gang to fit in, there was plenty of room for just one Mista to laze about, while the others were all either shopping, or meeting up with Polpo for their next assignment. He had been told to clean up- and he did, for the most part. He had swept, and mopped, and done most of the dishes. He vacuumed the rug… although he didn't take out the trash or clean any of the sleeping areas. He figured that would boil down to everyone's "personal preferences". He tossed the contained aside, striking the wall and falling into the open trash can.  
"Nice! Score for Mista!" he proclaimed, excited that no one could hear him… or so her thought. From another room, he heard the floorboards creak.  
He snapped to attention, his hand quickly to his waist, cradling a snub-nosed revolver, tapping the barrel light enough to not make any noise. What was that sound? He had better check it out. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead, and he smelled metal.  
"Oi, Bucciarati? Home so soon?" he called into the living room, knowing full well it would not be Bucciarati. Soft, pitter pattering footsteps marched away, towards the direction of what Mista assumed to be Bucciarati's bedroom. He stood up, careful to not make any noise by sliding hi chair abruptly, and he held a finger to his lips, to silence the Pistols. He whispered softly, and released the chamber of his revolver.  
"Number 6, Number 7, I want you two to go peek in there- tell me what you see." he whispered, gesturing towards the darkened living room. They nodded in sync.  
"We'll do what you say Mista, but it looks really scary!" 7 declared. "Hey, since when are you the scaredy cat?" Mista snapped. 7 shook his head.  
"Never! 6, come with me!" the stand replied. 6 grumbled and floated after him, as the two disappeared into the living room. Mista stepped after them, slowly, the remaining Pistols following in a dread silence. His lip trembled as his eyes crossed past a clock on the wall- it had stopped at 4:44.  
"Bucciarati, I'm coming in the living room now… where have you been?" he called out, trying to taunt his enemy into revealing themselves. His finger itched the trigger, and his teeth grit in preparation. If this was a stand attack, he might be in serious trouble. A sudden flash of yellow disrupted Mista, causing him to fire! A flash of fire and brimstone from the barrel of his revolver blinded him, his ears accustomed to the sound of a gun blast, but not to that of his own Pistol's shouting at him.  
"Mista! Mista! It's us!" 7 screamed at him, narrowly avoiding the bullet as he glided in front of Mista's nose.  
"We went into the living room, just like you said!" he yelled, waving his arms in front of the panicked Mista. Mista recoiled, and slipped, falling onto his rear with a loud thump.  
"P-Pistols! What did you see?" he asked, moving his finger away from the trigger. 6 grumbled and said,  
"The living room is empty, save for furniture and the like. We did find evidence that someone had been in there though… there were muddy footprints." Mista cocked his eyebrow. He hesitated, and looked around the kitchen. "It's in my best interest to go after them. If it's just some burglar, I'd be an idiot to let them steal from Bruno!" he stood up, brushing the dust off his rump. 7 shook his head, and 5 glided next to him.  
"No, Mista! If you go in there, and they have a stand too, you'd be at a severe disadvantage- we're a ranged stand, we're not built for quarters this close!" he cried out. Mista sheepishly smiled, and pat Number 5's pointed head.  
"We'll be safe, Number 5. As long as we keep my gun loaded, and we use our heads- what?!" he looked down to his open chamber, to see only four bullets left.  
"I-impossible! It was full- I only fired one shot! There should be five left, why are there only four left, this makes no goddamn sense!" he frantically felt around in his back pocket, clutching the handful of bullets he kept. He smiled crookedly as he pulled them out.  
"N-not a problem, I'll just load it and-"  
He shrieked as he saw four bullets in his hand. He looked away and loaded two into the chamber, and shut it.  
"D-Dammit, what is with my luck!?" he shouted. The Pistols looked on in horror.  
"M-Mista… open the chamber again!" 5 yelled. Mista gulped and looked down.  
"Why would I do that? It's fully loaded now!"  
"Just do it, Mista!" 5 yelled at him, tears filling his bulbous eyes. 7 and 6 looked on in horror, hugging against each other. Mista swallowed and shuddered, opening his chamber.  
There were only four bullets.  
He screamed, and his hand once more dove into his back pocket- only to pull four bullets out.  
"This is impossible!" he shouted, tears forming in his eyes.  
"Wh-what is the universe telling me?!" he yelled, collapsing onto his knees. Through his sobs, he heard a slow applause, and looked up. In the doorway stood a man, quite tall, taller than even Abbachio. He had longer black hair, which curled down into refined tips. A twisted smile, almost snake-like, crawled across his face, and his pale olive skin. His eyebrows were thin, but razor sharp, and his pupils seemed to defy color itself, almost completely black. His attire was simple but all the more refined- a long black coat, with a white collar, and dress pants. He looked like he was a party-goer, as though he were on his way to Venezia for a ball of some kind. Still, Mista recognized this man's dress as a signal- he was a gangster.  
"Who-who are you?!" Mista spat out, sounding much more cowardly than he originally intended. The man's grin widened, and his leg came up, kicking Mista square in the jaw with what Mista imagined could only be steel-toe! Mista came crashing down, backwards, feeling teeth loose in his jaw. He coughed and spat them out- four teeth, no less.  
"My name… you want to know my name?" the man asked, planting his foot on Mista's chest. Mista struggled, trying to lift his boot, but the man was much heavier than him!  
"Give me your name, and maybe I won't kill you!" Mista shouted, blood flying from his mouth. The man sneered, and hurled his fist to Mista's head, cracking him against the cheek. Mista cried out in pain, and the man recoiled his wrist, brushing over it with fingers.  
"I seem to have lost a bit of form… it's been a while since I've tortured someone." he snickered, and gripped Mista's cheeks in one hand.  
"My name… my name is Arancini. I am- was a part of Passione's Cover unit. The unit of gangsters whose job is to mask our activities under miles of lire and red tape. I bribe police, kill politicians, and I silence gangsters who the boss is afraid might be a threat to his operation. How stupid he was though- he did not think of the possibility of his own Cover Unit turning against him!" he chuckled to Mista. Mista's eye were already darting around, looking for some means of escape. The Pistols were nowhere to be seen. It was then he saw Arancini' forked tongue, cut, and scarred down the middle.  
"...my apologies, Mista, I don't usually chat with my victims." he joked, grinning ear to ear. Mista bit my his lip and kicked his legs, only for Arancini to stomp onto his knee. Mista screamed, unsure of the extent of the damage, but recognizing the sting of a shattered bone!  
"Dammit! Get the hell off of me!" he demanded, fighting back screams. His hands fixed the direction of his gun, which he jabbed against Arancini' thigh. Without warning he pulled the trigger, a gunblast permeating the sordid silence!

But Arancini did not move. He laughed maniacally, as blood shot out of his leg, onto the floor, pooling in a crimson puddle.  
"You fool! You have no idea how my ability works! You could shoot me in the head, and it won't matter!" he cackled, similar to a hyena . He cracked his fist against Mista again, who cried out angrily in pain.  
"H-how!? How are you standing, let alone laughing?!" he puzzled, gritting his teeth. Arancini quickly snatched the gun from his confused opponent, and popped open the chamber. He reared back, laughing, and dumped four bullets onto Mista's chest, who screamed at the top of his lungs.

The long walk back, Narancia kept peering over his shoulder. Purple Haze sauntered behind them, hissing and foaming at the mouth. He still felt a pit in his stomach, seeing that same purple fire in Fugo's eyes as the monster's. The march uphill, Narancia noticed that all of the clocks they passed seem to have stopped at the same time- 4:44. He assumed they meant 4:44 a.m., as it was much too dark to be an afternoon time. He yawned, his sleepiness creeping up on him.  
"Fugo… could you explain it one more time? I still don't understand." he asked, trying to get Fugo talking so he could stay awake. Fugo recognized this, and rolled his eyes.  
"It's not that you don't understand, but… stands are manifestations of one's inner spirit, in a way, they are extensions of our personalities. Everyone in our outlet has a stand… and we suppose you do too."  
Narancia felt a bit side-stepped. It seemed Fugo was more interested in his potential stand more than himself. He held his head glumly as he traced Fugo's steps in the sidewalk. He sighed loudly, and ran his fingers through his hair.  
"What's with… what's with these clothes? They seem kind of… flashy?" he asked. Fugo couldn't help but let out a small chuckle. "Yeah, it's a bit much for me too… you can go ahead and modify it as you see fit. Maybe… cut the skirt a little so it doesn't drag along the ground?" he laughed. Narancia blushed, and picked up the fabric as they moved.  
"H-hey, it's not all bad! The shoes are neat… and I like the bracers!" he declared, a confident smile across his maw.  
"Well, you have bracers and long sleeves. That kind of defeats the purpose." Fugo rebutted, wagging his finger.  
Narancia and Fugo laughed, as they critiqued Narancia's outfit. Bucciarati had particular tastes, and believed an improperly dressed gangster was a slob, which was why he made sure his gang ran out in high tier clothing. "...You know, there's more to being a part of the gang then uncomfortable tights and stands." Fugo said, correcting his more serious nature.  
"...Bucciarati believes that the most important thing a gangster must have is resolve. The ability to realize your situation and push through without faltering to emotion, or cracking under stress- that is resolve. To surpass your own human desires… to surpass yourself." he said, his voice lowering to almost a whisper. At the top of the hill, they saw the building- stone, grey, a relatively older building but classy. Their hideout was waiting.

Arancini cleaned the blood off his knife, licking the tip, and moaning in pleasure. "So tasty… Mista, Mista Mista, it took plenty of time, and patience, but I shattered you like an egg." he grinned turning back to Mista. He was bound, by his hands, bleeding from the face, the chest, the nails… but no matter how much blood he lost, Mista could not… he could not die. Though he wanted to, he could not. Arancini hummed a tune as he dragged Mista to the nearest couch, and slapped him. He let out a quiet whimper, his anger and pain coupling in some bizarre, tear-filled animal cry.  
"You stay quiet! Stay quiet and I'll let you die tonight…" he chuckled. He draped a blanket over Mista's unmoving body, and the world grew black around him. Mista could see nothing, though he could hear everything. He heard his blood drip, his labored breathing, his stand failing to summon… his brain had been damaged, he could not bring Sex Pistols out. He closed his eyes, wishing he could move… even the tiniest finger.  
From the kitchen, Arancini heard a loud knock. He turned his attention with a morbid grin, and licked his lips.  
"They're here…" he chuckled, and disappeared into a darkened hall.  
"Mista! Are you in there? Open the door!" Fugo yelled from the hall. He turned to Narancia. "I expect that our enemy may be in here… which means Mista might be dead. I'll do my best to protect you but… things may get ugly." he warned him, in a whisper. Narancia nodded, a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead. He gripped Fugo's wrist.  
"W-wait… I need something better than a knife to protect me." he said. Fugo nodded, and narrowed his eyes.  
"...if things go according to plan, then you have it already."  
Fugo twisted the knob, and creaked the door open. The kitchen was illuminated, clean, a styrofoam container on the table had been duct-taped shut. Fugo looked at the walls, the ceiling, and the floor. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He hesitated, and turned to Narancia.  
"...It's safe." he whispered. Narancia nodded, and followed him in. He had not been in Bucciarati's apartment before, but it seemed to match his boss very well. Linoleum flooring, and cream colored walls, arched doorways, and simplified impressionistic paintings. He gulped and followed closely behind Fugo, lifting the bottom of his outfit so it did not catch on anything.  
"Narancia- listen to me. There's definitely someone in here. Let me explain." he grabbed Narancia's shoulders, and whispered to him.  
"Simone the Gryphon. That is his name. He led the Cover Unit for Passione- the people who covered our tracks and kept us safe from police. He turned the entirety of his Unit against Passione, and now they go by La Clan. They are supposed to be incredibly powerful stand users… which is why I suspect Mista may be dead. Listen! The Gryphon has an edge that serves as a threat to the rest of Passione… he's the only person alive to have ever met directly with the boss' right hand. He has not revealed his identity, but if Simone were to drop his name… the boss could be found out, and tracked. That is why we have to stop him." he jerked his head around, and spotted the dark living room. He pointed to it, and shushed his finger. Purple Haze had entered behind them, the hissing and drooling stopping, in total silence. Narancia's shoes scratched against the floor, and Fugo pressed his foot on top of him. He then gestured for Narancia to enter the living room.  
"...You are going to create a distraction, until I can find the enemy. Taunt him out of hiding, prompt him to attack you directly." he said, pressing his hand to Narancia's chest. Narancia stuttered, and nodded.  
"W-will I die?" he asked, his eyes wide. Fugo dipped his head down.  
"I'll be honest… we don't know the extent of this guy's power. I don't know what his stand is. This is a massive risk, but it's our best bet to lure him out of hiding. I'll do my best to keep you alive but… you'll also need to be prepared to defend yourself." he replied, cooly. Narancia tried to move, but his knees would not allow it. He looked down, expecting to see his pants filled with urine. Sweat dripped from him, and he swallowed. His left foot stepped forward, slowly creeping to the doorway. His right foot followed suit, then his left, then right, then left, then right- until he was on the threshold between light and oblivion.  
He parts his lips, and turns back to Fugo, nodding, his eyebrows furrowed. Fugo nodded, a minute smile passing his lips and quickly fleeting, as he crept against a wall, hiding his body. Purple Haze followed suit.  
He opened his mouth to speak, and cleared his throat. That fire in Fugo's eyes burned a bright orange in Narancia. He bit his tongue, and clenched his fists, trying to garner the resolve Fugo possessed.  
"Hey, dirtbag!" he shouted into the blackened room.

"...come on out!" he demanded. His heartbeat quickened, his breathing uneven, and rapid.  
"Where's Mista? Dead, isn't he?" he asked. His fingers fumbled for the knife in his back pocket.  
"Y-you can only take guys out from the shadows, can't you? Too much of a coward to face them head-on? Or are you man enough to try to fight me in the light?" he taunted, spitting. He backed up from the door.  
"...Then face me! Come fight me!" he commanded, shouting into the blackness. He gulped, his eyes following Fugo and Purple Haze, who's fist was clenched and trembling. He closed his eyes, and growled lowly,  
"Face me, bastard!"  
At these words, a loud thud was heard from within. Narancia gasped, and pulled his knife, preparing for an attack…  
"...Quiet Riot." a voice said from within. Loud, slow footsteps approached the doorway, though Narancia could still see nothing. He started to hyperventilate, his hand shaking.  
"...is what I have named my stand." the voice said, stopping as it stood in the blackness. His eyes traced the arch, as four, prodding claw-like fingers, hooked onto the doorway. Their long, black, slender digits felt the wooden outline, mere centimeters from Fugo's face. "...would you like to know it's ability? Narancia?" the voice questioned, red eyes flickering in the dark. Narancia growled lowly, angling his eyebrows and biting his tongue so he would not scream. This monster, in it's incomplete form, was already more terrifying than Fugo's Purple Haze.  
"... I don't need to know your ability to slit your throat!" he barked, his legs trembling. He tossed his knife between hands, showing off. He grinned lightly as he caught it in each hand. The hand crawled up the arch, tapping it's fingers against the surface, as a low cackle came from the dark. "I know it's a trap, Narancia. Fugo's probably on the other side, isn't he? Which side? My right, or my left?" it asked, in a condescending, but all too correct manner. Narancia bit his lip, and waved his knife in front of him, in a clockwise motion.  
"Y-you're wrong! Fugo left to look for Bucciarati!" he proclaimed,his feet shifting position. The voice cackled, in a high-pitched, hyena-like tone, before it spoke once more, in a much sharper, more gravel-like tone.  
"You are such a dirty little liar, Narancia… My stand's hand is right in front of his face, isn't it?" he asked, his digits lifting, reaching, just a millimeter from Fugo's hair. He held his breath, near immobile. His eyes flashed to Narancia, as he mouthed signs of aggression. Narancia read his lips to say "Kill him", "Murder him", "Slash his throat". His heartbeat was near indistinguishable from a hummingbird's, as he prepared his knife.  
"One more chance, guy- get out of here now, or I'll cut you wide open!" he yelled, more afraid than aggressive. Through teary eyes, he watched the eyes go dark, and the hand disappear into the darkness. He stopped, his heartbeat slowing, as he wondered to himself if the enemy was ever really there. The deafening silence was more harmful to Narancia than the words the voice had spoken to him. "My name…" the voice started, suddenly. As he spoke, Narancia backed up, watching him step through the doorway, "Is Arancini."  
As he came into Fugo's eyesight, Purple Haze launched a ravenous punch. Shrieking in a barbaric rage, in a quick flash of purple, his fist crashed against Arancini's cheekbones, smashing them to bits due to the sheer power of the blow- but it wasn't over yet! The bulbs on Purple Haze's fists cracked open like eggs, as a strange, dusty, violet haze spilled out of them, attaching itself to Arancini's flesh!  
Narancia watched as the haze, in it's infectious, flesh-eating form, wore his face to the bone in less than a second, his very muscle melting off into a puddle.  
Arancini did not falter.  
Simply brushing aside the virus attached to him with the back of his hand- also now eaten- Arancini cracked his neck, and smiled, his skull-like appearance making him all the more menacing. He flicked his forked tongue out and cackled once more.  
"Don't you get it? Fools! You cannot kill me! I don't need to hide my ability- because you can never escape from it!" his voice sounded shrill, as part of his neck and throat had melted away. Narancia felt vomit rise in his stomach as the man wiped rotting flesh from his skull, and Fugo recoiled, surprised the man survived not only a direct blow from Purple Haze- but one that cracked almost every bulb!  
"My ability, Narancia…" he began, cracking his neck and approaching him, slowly. Narancia backed up, the sheer terror crawling down his spine As Arancini marched his reaper march.  
"...I can create a nightmare world. The world you are in right now is a fraud; my fictional representation of Naples. You see, once my Quiet Riot targets someone, they are trapped in a false reality, where I am king. This nightmare world is mine to control, with one limit, and one limit only…" he took Narancia's knife, and twirled it in between his fingers. He snickered.  
"This is… a lovely instrument, Narancia. I see you have good taste. The one limit is…" before he could finish, he jammed the knife in his neck!  
"...No one can die in the nightmare world!"

"Arancini. He's my least trusted companion, but his value lies in his unpredictable nature." the man said, cross-legged. Though only his knees and feet were visible, as well as the arms of the chair, one could see the glint of his glass twirling, the wine inside sloshing in a quiet barrage.  
"Why do you trust him at all?" the other man asked. His white hair and black eyes made him a terrifying portrait of cruelty. He stood, in the natural light of a nearby window, the only light which filled the room.  
"He is one of, if not the most talented interrogators Passione has ever had, or will ever have. He's also a fine executioner, and though I wouldn't turn my back on him, I would keep him on a leash directly in front of me. Arancini… may be the most dangerous foe I could make. I am proud to have obtained such a friend in him." the man said, swirling his glass. The taller man crossed his arms, and stood in front of the window, blocking most of the light but for a few, string-like fleeting streams.  
"...Where does he come from, Simone?" the tall man asked, looking out the window, below, to the streets of Naples.  
"A mental institution. He was diagnosed with schizophrenia… declared criminally insane. Believe me, Arancini the Hyena is much more dangerous than a few documents will tell you… and his stand, Quiet Riot, is more dangerous than words could justify." Simone said, sipping his wine in the dark. The tall man nodded.  
"The Hyena… Passione's cover unit uses these nicknames to distinguish themselves… why?" he asked. Simone chuckled lowly.  
"Risotto, the cover unit is much more than a few gangsters mashed together because of their talents… we are a tribe, a family, a clan. These are our family's identifying names. Arancini is the Hyena because of his ruthless nature, his natural insanity, his relentless pursuit of his targets, and of course, his lust to pick on what has already been defeated." he cleared his throat.  
Risotto turned, and sneered, tapping his fingers against the windowsill.  
"...Why did you bring me here, Simone? I did not arrive to chit chat." he demanded. Simone laughed.  
"...Risotto, I come to you out of trust. Respect. Our blood is thick, and more than once have we fought and killed for the other. That is why I must ask the unimaginable of you…" Simone rose, still submerged in the darkness of the room. Risotto narrowed his eyes, and stared into the darkness.  
"...The boss's time has come. The Clan is leaving Passione… we deserve more than our boss will allow. That is why we seek to overthrow him. I want you to join us, Risotto." he stated. Risotto was taken aback, his eyes widening, then narrowing, his teeth bared.  
"You… you cannot ask me of this, Simone. It is unfair. We have fought and killed for the other, as you have said… but I cannot turn on the boss on a whim." he declared, stomping his foot down. Simone sighed. In the dark room, he paced.  
"...Polpo has recently hired a young gangster, by the name of Ghirga. Through an outside contact, I believe Ghirga may be in possession of a powerful stand, although I've no clue what it could be. Bucciarati most likely already knows of my abandonment, and will send him after me. The boy is only 16. I don't want to have to kill him, but I will… Risotto, send your men after him, that is all I ask. Stop him, before I do." he said. Risotto shook his head, and clasped his temples.  
"Dammit Simone… I owe you plenty, but what you ask is… is treason...I will… consider it." he said, at last. "But," he continued,  
"We must never meet again. Too many eyes in Naples watching me, and if they find you, I'm a dead man. Then, the rest of my squad will be strung up by their jugulars. Run, far away, and I will kill this Ghirga for you." he stated, pointing to Simone. From the dark he heard a low laugh.  
"Yes, Risotto, yes… I thank you… brother."

Narancia fell onto his rear again, shaking in fear, as Arancini dragged his knife up and down his body, making deep, bloodied cuts. As he cut himself, he cackled maniacally, his melting face pooling on the floor, his skull visible, his exposed eye turning red with the blood filling it. Fugo recoiled out of shock, unsure of how to attack him.  
"Purple Haze!" he shouted, launching yet another attack towards the man. The beast roared, his fist flying- but it stopped!  
Caught by the slender digits of the stand Quiet Riot, Purple Haze's attack was nullified! Quiet Riot revealed itself, it's lanky, yet broad body, with several Zs in a pattern up it's spine, and down it's torso, it's head egg-shaped and near featureless, save for two small red dots that resembled its eyes. It's size was that of Arancini's- monstrous, tall, powerful. Arancini laughed, and tossed the knife away, before turning to Fugo.  
"Fu-Fu-Fu-Fu-Fugo! Little, little, Fugo! You're playing with the big boys!" He shrieked; Quiet Riot launched it's clawed hands to slash at Purple Haze, slashing at it's cheek! Narancia gasped as he watched the wounds arise on both Purple Haze, and Fugo's own cheek, blood spraying from both! Fugo shot back against the wall, clutching his cheek in pain.  
"Dammit! How could a stand move that fast?!" he shouted, Purple Haze roaring and foaming at the mouth. Arancini laughed slowly, and licked the blood from Quiet Riot's claws.  
"Fugo… Narancia… as I've said, the nightmare world is mine!" he declared. Narancia rose slowly, panting heavily as he watched Arancini's walking half-carcass begin it's misshapen strut towards him. He grit his teeth, tears welling. Quiet Riot hummed lowly, stretching it's claws towards Narancia as the zombie marched towards him. He looked to Fugo, who was distressed, immobilized by confusion and fear, murmuring to himself some insane ramble. Arancini' laughs became tight wheezes of insanity, his body falling apart at the Riot's claws stretched out slowly, reaching for the tip of Narancia's nose-  
"I'll kill you!" Narancia shouted, clenching his eyes shut, and ducking down, hiding his head between his legs. The sounds of gunfire filled his ears, as he assumed the sounds he heard were of his own life ending- his confusion and fear finally mixing as he sobbed in a fetal position… waiting for the touch of Quiet Riot's claws.  
But they didn't reach him.  
Opening his eyes, he did not see Quiet Riot reaching for him. He saw a bullet-riddled Arancini, his mouth open, agape in shock- and terror. He spoke now words, but looked down at his hole-filled torso. His hand twitched and poked into his chest, pulling a singular bullet from below his pectorals.  
"You… you little shit…" he mumbled, his eyebrows arching down, and gritting his teeth. A low hum filled the air behind Narancia's head, and he turned around-  
Floating above Narancia' head was crimson aeroplane, a fighter from what Narancia would guess was World War II, it's propellor whirring, and it's guns smoking. Fugo looked towards it, the faint outlines of a smile crossing his face. He broke into a light, insane laugh.  
"Narancia- Narancia, you've done it! Your stand! It's your stand!" he laughed, sheltering his face. Purple Haze stood up slowly, clenching it's fists, preparing to strike Arancini. Arancini looked around, and smiled.  
"Well, this has taken an unexpected turn… but you forget. Nobody can die in the nightmare world!" he cackled, blood spurting up, causing him to cough, and choke. He giggled through it.  
"No- but you can disable stands!" a voice shouted from the living room. Narancia, Fugo and Arancini turned slowly, to see him, standing in the doorway… beaten, bloodied, his eye swollen shut, his lip busted out of shape, most likely his arm broken, and his leg shattered. Guido Mista stood, barely conscious, leaning against the doorway, the look of determination and resolve shining through his pain, and whimpers. He pointed shakily to Arancini, straining his words.  
"Arancini- he destroyed… part of my brain! The part that… enables you to summon your stand! He's disrupted my thought process, I can't… I can't… I can't summon Sex Pistols! If you destroy his brain… he won't be able to control the nightmare world!" he shouted, before falling over backwards, wheezing, barely breathing. Narancia caught his words just barely, and looked between the miniature plane and Arancini. He could barely form words, his tongue shaking in his mouth.  
"A-Attack!" he shouted, pointing to the zombie man. The plane did nothing. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead.  
"Attack! I said attack!" he commanded, still, the plane did not move. Arancini shrieked out his hyena laugh, as Purple Haze weakly prepared to strike. It launched it's fist, only for Quiet Riot to counter- by cutting off it's arm! It cried out in a rage-filled pain, as Fugo's forearm also launched off- completely cut, cleanly from his body! Fugo screamed, the fire in his eyes fading, as he fell against the ground, writhing. Narancia panicked, his eyes amassing only tears, and none of the fiery resolve he so desperately wanted, that he so desperately needed at that moment! Arancini lost his smile, and his laugh, his pupils, black and empty, shrinking, as though he were some beast about to strike.  
"Narancia!" Fugo cried out, picking himself up with his one arm…  
"It's up to you! Find your resolve! Push forward! Don't let your emotions own you!" he called out, his knees shaking. He fell onto his side, unable to stand. Purple Haze dissipated, leaving only a purple glow which quickly faded. Fugo was unconscious. Mista looked up, straining, his vision hazy, unable to distinctly make out Narancia's facial expressions, but knowing he was in a fearful, hypnotized state.  
"N-Narancia… the brain! Hit… the brain…" he blacked out.

Narancia stared, head on against Arancini. His friends were out cold, hurt, and if he failed now, dead. He looked from Mista's unmoving, untwitching body, and to Fugo's pale skin, lifeless, but unable to reach death. The rules of the nightmare world… if Arancini was truly king, Narancia would be long dead… at least that is what he thought. Perhaps Arancini did not have nearly as much control as he led them to believe- the walls were still the walls, and he was still full of bullets with half his face gone. Narancia focused on what he remembered Fugo telling him, his eyes crawling slowly up the enemy's body. He remembered Fugo telling him… it was instinctual, like breathing, blinking, it was an extension of one's body. If he thought of it like a weapon, he could not use it. If he thought of it like an extra arm… or another head…  
He quickly turned his attention to the plane, as he heard it reload. Did he do that? Quiet Riot was rearing for an attack, he had less than a moment to enact his plan! Did he really just have to think about doing that? Was it as simple as that? No time- The slashing claw was on it's way- it was time to act! One meter from his face. One half meter. One quarter meter. Two centimeters. Half a centimeter-  
"Aerosmith!" he shouted!  
The sound of gunfire and ungodly screams filled the air, the bright flashing yellow of fire and brimstone destroying the unholy monster, it's distorted limbs and egg-like cranium, shattered as it's body was ripped, limb from limb from limb, the user in no better condition, his flesh tearing and his bones ground to dust as the plane riddled master and monster with searing hot metal, flying towards them at such great speeds it would burn holes in their flesh! Blood sprayed from both, mixing, Arancini's bright red, and Quiet Riot's blood an ebony black, mixing and sloshing in the open air, painting the linoleum walls and the arch doorway, smearing across one another in a distinctly morbid fashion, the ground beneath them flooded with their life liquid!  
In an instant, the barrage was over. For a short moment, the only sound heard was that of the shells hitting the floor, a soft tinkling noise that ended abruptly. There, in the middle of the kitchen, stood Narancia, breathing heavily but quietly, the soft hum of Aerosmith, and a completely still Arancini, his blood pouring from his body. Quiet Riot dissipated into a deep, dark glow, before disappearing completely. Arancini's eyes looked to Narancia, their deep black holes spelling out more than Narancia needed to know, or more likely cared to know. They grew, relaxing, his eyes rolling back into his skull, as he let out a faint groan. He fell over, onto his stomach and face. And the blood disappeared from the linoleum.  
Mista woke, his vision clear. He could feel… nothing wrong with him. He lifted his head, and felt his face. His bruising was gone, as was his lip gash- his legs were mended! Nothing was wrong with him! He stood up, unable to speak as he looked about his arms, his torso, his waist, his legs. He beamed-  
"Sex Pistols!" he called out. All 6 of his stand parts came out, and swooned around him.  
"Mista!" "We're so glad you're okay!" "Did Narancia beat him?" "Oh Mista, we're so happy!" "Mista's alright guys!"  
Fugo, likewise, woke up, his vision clear… he looked to his right side, and saw his arm was reattached, as though it had always been there… he turned his hand over, and clenched it into a fist. He gasped, and smiled, looking to Narancia, who was sweaty, but relieved.  
"Narancia! You did it!" he said, flashing a wide, and powerful smile. Narancia couldn't help but give a nervous chuckle. Arancini laid on the ground in front of them, his skin was mended, and he bore no signs of injury, save a hole through his head. Mista approached, and turned him over, and knelt down to feel his neck.  
"He's… alive." he said, nodding.  
"Most likely you hit his brain… but didn't kill him. Odd enough on its own…" he rubbed his chin, poking at the hole in Arancini's head, the enemy's jaw twitching as he did so. Narancia knelt down, and formed a fist, in case he woke up.  
"What I just did… how did I do it?" he asked Mista, examining the enemy's outfit, rummaging through his pockets. Mista hesitated, and hummed.  
"It's instinctual, until you really get the hang of it. What did you call it?" he asked, tilting his head. Narancia chuckled, and rubbed his scalp.  
"I think I called it… Aerosmith. It just came to me." he nodded, a slight smile creeping across his face. Mista grinned, and put his hand on Narancia's shoulder.  
"Aerosmith! I like it. My stand is known as Sex Pistols. I think you might already know Fugo's is Purple Haze…" he continued. Narancia stopped, and gasped, as he felt something in Arancini's pocket, on the inside of his coat.  
"Mista! I think I found something…" he said, as he pulled a note from his pocket. He read it aloud, the handwriting neat, and somewhat effeminate.  
"Arancini, your target is Ghirga. Eliminate any who come in your way, expect resistance from Fugo specifically. He is the most deadly stand user you could face, but watch for Ghirga's stand. It is still unknown. When you are finished, meet with us at the…" he stopped. Below was a series of symbols and shapes, unfamiliar to him. Mista glanced it over, cocking an eyebrow.  
"They must have figured Arancini might lose. They didn't want us to know where he was headed afterwards. If we can figure out this code, we can find where he was headed." he said, nodding, rubbing his chin. He turned to Narancia.  
"Abbachio might be able to help, but I'm not sure how exactly… maybe he could imitate the writer of this note?" he puzzled, and scratched his forehead. Narancia stood up, and moved into the living room. All things considered, it was not nearly as scary as Arancini had made it seem, when he was in there all alone. It was a humble space, with good carpet, and a longer couch. Before he could consider his manners, Narancia flopped down, resting his head against the armrest. He stared into the kitchen, watching Fugo approach Mista, and assist in searching Arancini's pockets. He watched them at work, his eyes shutting slowly… as he closed them, all he could picture was the code. What could it mean? 


End file.
